


Couch Potato

by tahariel



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is moving his furniture into Charles' place. Charles is only interested in what's in his drawers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couch Potato

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nekosmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/gifts).



The problem is that, while theoretically lifting large items of furniture by their metal fixtures is an elegant solution to moving apartments, realistically the metal parts are small and unsupportive enough that the pressure cracks the wood when he’s barely out of the truck and Erik’s couch ends up lying half on the sidewalk, half on the road, with the middle collapsed into a heap, the ends leaning in toward one another like gossiping old ladies.

“Shit,” he says, and for a self-indulgent moment he just stands and stares at the couch with mingled disbelief and disgust.

The worst part is when Charles sticks his head out of the fourth-floor window, tousle-headed like he’s just got out of bed - which he probably has, the bastard, when Erik has been up since six - looks down and very audibly says “Shit,” in that ridiculously posh voice of his that makes an everyday cuss word sound like a proclamation from on high. “Erik, what happened?”

Erik scowls. “Just come down here and help me.”

Together they haul the damn thing properly onto the sidewalk so at least it’s not blocking the half of the street the moving truck’s currently occupying. It sags despondently, broken-backed, the bright April sunlight poking its fingers into every worn patch of fabric, every food stain and - other stain - and patch and tear it’s ever accumulated since Erik’s parents first bought it, already second-hand, at a flea market one rainy Tuesday when Erik was ten and bored and wanted nothing more than to go home.

It’s fugly as hell, but he’d opened all of his birthday presents on that couch as a kid, fallen asleep on it begrudgingly watching late-night romcoms with his mom, written most of his thesis perched cross-legged in the ancient butt-dent his father had worn into it with his papers spread around him like a bomb had gone off. It’s full of crumbs and old pennies and popcorn, though some of the rubbish has fallen out from between the cushions now that there’s not a lot holding them up.

“I think it’s dead,” Charles says, prodding it with his foot, trying to lift the middle, and the couch makes a disgruntled noise of splintered wood on wood.

Erik sighs, jerks his head back towards the truck. “Come on. Let’s get everything else upstairs and then I’ll take it to the dump before I return the truck later.”

_I’m sorry about your couch,_ Charles sends as Erik climbs into the open back of the truck to grab the next thing - a bedside cabinet he can carry easily in his arms, though heaven only knows where it’s going to go in the already-crowded apartment. _We’ll decide which things to keep once they’re all upstairs,_ the telepath continues, as if Erik’s passing thought was a part of their conversation - which of course, to Charles, it is.

“Will we fit upstairs when they’re all in there?” Erik hops back down to the sidewalk and hands Charles the matching cabinet, slides the rolling back of the truck down with a flick of his fingers and locks it just as easily against nosy neighbours. “Because I thought _I_ was moving in with you, not my furniture.”

There’s a feeling of intense amusement that isn’t his. “I’m only after what’s in your drawers,” and Charles grins, wide and filthy, wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, setting off for the apartment building on the opposite side of the street. In his short-sleeved t-shirt - a rare treat outside, usually he’s stuffier in public - the strong muscles of his arms are easily visible, freckled and lightly-furred. “Could you get the door, love?”

It’s easy to open the door, at least, without breaking it, and Erik has to roll his eyes at himself for being proud of this prodigious feat. “I see how it is. I think I saw a porno like this once. Sexy mover gets assaulted by horny shut-in.”

“Hey!”

It’s easy to grin, then, bad mood breaking. “I didn’t say he minded.”

Charles looks back at him over his shoulder as they go up the stairs - the elevator is broken - and this is the reason Erik finally - after a whole lot of badgering, after two years of being made fun of and cuddled against his will and having his mind read and earning those looks, warm and knowing and familiar, with a wave of affection that still bewilders him sometimes - this is the reason Erik finally agreed to move into Charles’ ridiculously oversized apartment after Raven finally moved out, because Charles just laughs, flicking his floppy hair out of his face with a quick jerk of his chin that only shows off the pale skin of his throat where Erik best likes to kiss and sometimes bite.

“Maybe we’ll order pizza and we can make it a two-for-one,” Charles says when they reach the fourth floor, and, “Do you think they’d lend you the uniform?” and when Erik has put down his bedside cabinet in the hall beside its matching partner Charles pushes him up against the wall and presses their mouths together with a smothered laugh, thinks, _Not how I’d hoped to break in the couch,_ and Erik has to laugh, too.


End file.
